Born To Die
by laloga
Summary: A series of vingnettes about the OC clones of Shadow Squad. Surprise...I'm not George Lucas and don't own Star Wars! Rating is for a teensy bit of language.
1. Traxis

_Author's note: The members of my little group of OC clones have been through a lot and have been very insistent about getting some background stories all their own. Being the pushover that I am, this is my attempt to flesh out "the guys" of Shadow Squad, who you will recognize from my other stories: _All or Nothing _and _Warriors of Shadow_. If you aren't familiar with those, this might be a good intro...hmmm? Please enjoy, and review if you are so inclined. Thanks for reading!_

_The quotes (and title) are from the song, "Intermission," by The Scissor Sisters._

* * *

><p><strong>Traxis<strong>

"_Sometimes you're filled with the notion,_

_The afterlife's a moment away;_

_You want to tell someone the way that you feel,_

_But then you ain't got nothing to say."_

No one ever asked Trax how he got his scar.

Naturally, he preferred it that way, as it was a moment in his short life that he relived each day, which was bad enough without having to talk about it. Wasn't one of the more pleasant moments, either.

Traxis preferred weapons; they were easy to understand, easy to keep in good condition. Should they become overheated, they could be set down or even re-calibrated. If they emptied, they could be recharged. When they broke, they could be fixed. Of course it wasn't the same for wets – organic life-forms – which was why he found it to be normally not worth the effort it took to get to know them. The people around Traxis had a nasty tendency to die on him.

When he was young – well, _younger -_ he was more optimistic; he cracked jokes, made faces beneath his helmet, whistled when he was working. Like every other clone he could fire a blaster with perfect accuracy, slog for hours through mire and jungle without tiring, follow every given order with nary a thought...and it was all so utterly normal that he never once considered that things could be – would ever be – different. When he stepped on the ship that took him away from Kamino he was eager to meet his fate head-on with a handful of tibanna and hot carbine.

Everything changed when he stepped off the Larty, when his boots touched dirt for the first time.

Like every other brother, Traxis' initial battle shattered him, left him scattered on the ground, battered and broken. A thousand empty pieces.

It was on Teth.

In the beginning he didn't remember much besides the shouting, the thrill of adrenaline in his veins as he pushed the bile of fear back down his throat as he lifted his Deece and sent a blast of hot plasma at the nearest droid, then another, and another and another. The ground was hard beneath his feet, vibrating with the oncoming tanks; there were a group of SBDs that surrounded him, sending sprays of fire and heat his way. Traxis dropped to his belly, rolled in the mud; his armor was no longer shiny and new as he avoided being fried, though it was by a narrow margin. Heat choked the air around his body as he fell.

Then training kicked in again and Traxis sprang to his feet, firing on the nearest clanker – only a spindly battle droid – nodding to himself as he watched it collapse in a smoldering heap. There was an opening, a way to rejoin the others. He ran. Below his feet the ground quivered.

It was better, later on, when he was back-to-back with a brother whose name he didn't catch. He wasn't like Traxis, this brother who had seen battle since that first day at Geonosis. "Cover me," the brother-with-no-name called, raising his twin blasters and nodding to an oncoming SBD. Even as he did as he was told, Traxis watched No-Name with awe; the arcs of blue erupting from his hands like lightning. No-Name took down three of the clankers before he himself succumbed; one of his blasters clattered to Traxis' feet, still hot. He lifted it, felt the reassuring weight in not one but both of his hands. A droid approached him and he fired, two shots at once. It fell.

Beneath his helmet, Traxis grinned.

As he celebrated his small victory, he neglected to notice the rolling droid that appeared at his back until light and heat bloomed around him. Traxis turned, still smiling. Air rushed into his nostrils, followed by dirt and grit as his helmet was knocked off. There was heat; the smell of seared flesh and the shuddering sensation of his head hitting the ground.

He felt numb. Then there was light, followed by blackness.

* * *

><p>In the aftermath of battle no one screamed because there was no sound in death. There were whimpers, moans, yelps and other sounds that dying animals made; the noises echoed in his raw ears as his helmet had vanished. Traxis' armor was no longer shiny as he crawled on his knees through the dirt that was still and silent beneath his body, his vision blurred by something warm and wet that he tried not to think about. The numbness was gone and his head and neck hurt like hell.<p>

Soon there were no more groaning sounds and no more cries as silence congealed in the air. Still Traxis crawled; he didn't know exactly where he was going but he hoped it was towards help, towards faces that he would recognize...provided he could ever see anything again. Night fell, or so he thought by the sounds of droning insects or the cooling air against his face and he realized that he was lost and alone, with only the twin blasters that had remained in his hands the entire time. The muzzle of the weapon in his left hand hit something hard and solid, a tentative brush with his little finger indicated the rough skin of a fallen tree and the ground below him sloped, possibly providing some kind of cover.

Back to the tree, blasters in his hands, Traxis spent the night alone for the first time in his life. He was unfamiliar with the sounds of Teth, especially night-time ones, and it was not easy to keep from firing at each rustle in the brush and each distant footfall; however, the thought of being stranded without any ammunition was enough to keep his finger from squeezing the triggers. In any case, he was reassured by the presence of a weapon in each hand and for a little while, that was enough. His world shrank to the size of the blasters in his grip.

After an hour or so he felt around for his medipac and tried to mop up, though it was a bit of a debate, as it meant that he would have to set down one of the weapons. But the wound was deeper than he imagined and he added his own sounds to the noises of the forest, hisses and curses made through clenched teeth. It was bad. He knew that he needed medical attention before infection set in. Traxis tried to pay attention to the sounds of the night rather than think about the pain as he attempted to clear away the area around his eyes, but it didn't work.

As his sight didn't return, Trax began to wonder if he was broken. He also wondered if anyone would bother looking for him when he didn't report back. He couldn't remember proper procedure in this case, namely whether anyone was supposed to search for wounded men, and the realization that he might have brain damage was not a comforting thought alone in the darkness. His hands clenched around the hilts of the blasters and he tried not to think about the pain in his head.

Possibly he slept, because at one point he realized that the sounds of the night had faded away into other noises, daytime noises; the trickling, incongruous sound of bird calls, the buzzing of different insects, all interspersed with the feel of something warm against his cheek. At first he thought it was sunlight and felt a flash of panic – as it meant he was exposed – but then he realized that it was only the press of the left-hand blaster to his skin. Like a living thing it was still warm, despite the hours that had passed.

When they found him the next day, the blasters were still clutched in his hands and he flat-out refused to release them. There was more cursing, more animal sounds. Only when someone gave him a shot of tranquilizer and he felt his fingers unclench – not of their own accord – did the weapons leave his grip.

They told him that he was lucky that he didn't lose his sight, though he was left with a ripple of pink, puckered skin that ribboned across his face and slipped below his neck. They also told him that he was lucky because he was one of the few survivors, that he was a true soldier now, no longer shiny and new.

Traxis didn't care about any of that, but he never forgot the feeling of safety gripped in both hands.


	2. Weave

**Weave**

"_First impressions are cheap auditions,_

_Situations are long goodbyes._

_Truth so often living dormant,_

_Good luck walks and bullshit flies."_

The thought occurred to him once that if one was never born then one could never die. In theory, anyway.

But Weave knew well enough that he was mortal; he'd seen proof of _that _unalterable fact. Death was a sure thing, a fully quantified reality whose inevitability gave him a cold kind of comfort. Birth however, was as foreign an idea to him as free will, or choice. Though the concept held an intrinsic significance, it was impractical to dwell on it for too long, as birth was ultimately a fallacy, an equation that could not be solved. It didn't exist in his world of decanting jars and feeding tubes.

It was a far better use of his efforts to occupy his mind with more rational problems so that he might be able to serve his brothers: the joining of pliable cartilage to bone; the delicate interlacing of cording muscle and filigreed nerve endings; the flow of blood and plasma through impossibly intricate networks of veins...these were the things that it was essential to understand, that it was necessary to know. There was a time when he took pleasure in piecing together the puzzle of the human body – the clone body – and made it is goal to understand everything he could about physiology, about anatomy, about _how _and _when _and _where. _

It was the _why _he never troubled himself with, if he could help it.

However, Weave could remember the very moment that he asked that question, as it was the moment that signaled the beginning of his other life, his second life; it was his metamorphosis from a dim awareness to a consciousness of theories and speculations, of asking _why_.

It happened when he was about to complete his training to be a medic. He was stationed aboard one of the smaller medical centers when a batch of brothers in serious condition were rushed aboard the station from a battle in a nearby system. There were many wounded, more so than the staff could accommodate at one time, so he and several of the other medics-in-training were tasked with keeping the less-critical ones alive until it was their turn for surgery or the bacta tank.

Weave stood at the bedside of CC-4460, who had an ugly, scythe-shaped gash in his chest and injected a round of painkillers into the injured captain's neck, watching as eyes that could have been his own unfocused and closed as the meds took effect. Once he was sure that the clone was unconscious he ran through the checklist of problems in order to find the most efficient way to heal the wounded man.

Heartbeat: _erratic. _Weave could see the tenuous pulse of veins beneath the skin of the neck, almost a living thing in of itself.

Temperature: _feverish. _Too hot; his skin burned to the touch, a sign of infection.

Visible wounds: _severe. _Besides the gash there were extensive areas of skin that were scorched with blaster-fire and he idly wondered if CC-4460 had been involved in the frontal assault during the skirmish.

He patched the captain up as best he could for the time being and nodded to himself as he submitted the request to place the captain in the next tank rotation; provided the clone was placed in a bacta tank soon the injuries – though they were formidable – would not kill him, which allowed Weave to breath a bit easier as he moved on to the next bedside. However, hours later when he made it back to CC-4460, he noticed that both his heartbeat and temperature had increased and that no one had replied to his request for a tank.

_Could be indication of further infection_, Weave thought as he examined the man. _He needs to be placed in a tank immediately. _A few strokes against the clone's chart sent the request directly to Serre Lau, the Kaminoan who served as the station's chief medical officer. Moments later he received a reply: _stand-by._ Weave frowned and glanced up at the other patients in this wing. There were none with injuries as severe as this man's and he knew for a fact that at least one tank should be free by now. _Perhaps they made a mistake. _He looked back at the 'pad and re-submitted the request only to receive the same message.

* * *

><p>An hour later, when his brother's eyes opened and fixed on him Weave nearly dropped the 'pad in surprise. <em>He shouldn't be awake after all the meds I gave him. <em>

"It hurts."

The words were spoken without the tint of fear though Weave could see the apprehension in his brother's eyes. "Here you go, sir," he said, holding up a hypospray. "This should help." He pressed the device to the other man's skin.

"Didn't do much before, but what the hell."

Despite himself, Weave smiled. "Better, sir?"

CC-4460 nodded. "Thanks...?"

"CT-22-3993."

The brother shook his head, wincing at the motion. "No, son. Your name."

"Oh." He felt his face grow hot. "Weave, sir." He glanced down at the datapad with the captain's condition, noting the change from _serious _to_ critical _and sent the request a fourth time. Again, no reply came.

"Since you asked, I'm Wallop."

Again, he felt embarrassment course through him. It was rude not to acknowledge a brother's name, no matter what the circumstances. "Sorry, sir," he replied.

Wallop chuckled. "That bad, huh?" At Weave's look of confusion he nodded to the 'pad. "My condition."

"Of course not, sir," Weave said. "It's...we're a bit overwhelmed at the moment. I'm just lining up a bacta tank for you. A few hours in one and you'll be good as new."

Again, the captain chuckled. "You're a bad liar, Weave. It's okay," he added. "It doesn't hurt any more. You've done a good job." He sighed and rested his head back against the bed. "Weave. Nice name."

"Thank you, sir." His comlink chimed and Weave excused himself to step away from Wallop's bedside.

"CT-22-3993." It was the voice of Serre Lau. "You have submitted multiple requests for the same unit after being instructed to stand by. Explain."

Weave glanced at Wallop's readout and noted that his brother's core temp was still rising. "His condition is severe, sir," he replied. "He needs a bacta tank immediately."

"Denied," was the curt answer.

Heat leaped through his veins and his grip around the comlink tightened. "If I may ask _why, _sir?"

There was silence for a moment, then the sigh of someone who had better things to do than argue with a mere clone. "We've cleared out the emergencies," Lau said. "The tanks need to be shut down for a few hours' maintenance. They will be operational again in five point three hours."

Another glance at the captain told Weave that he didn't have that long; his skin was pallid and his breathing was growing more shallow. "Negative, sir," he said quietly, his voice sounding distant in his ears. "He won't make it that long."

"Then you should move on to another unit," Lau replied. "I'm certain there are others who require your attention."

"But-"

"You will return to your work," the Kaminoan said. "And do not bother me about this unit any longer." Abruptly the transmission ended and Weave was struck by the utter silence for a moment before he turned back to Wallop, who was watching him with the air of a man who knew too much.

"No go on the tank, huh?"

He wanted to lie, but his brother deserved the truth. "No." Weave heard his voice grow bitter. "Not for a few hours."

Wallop nodded and his eyes closed again for several minutes before he looked back at Weave. "You did what you could," he said. "And I want you to know, that I'm grateful to have a brother like you looking out for me, Weave."

"Numbers," Weave said after a moment. "Units. That's all we are to them, isn't it?" A string of equations and probability. Profit versus loss.

"Who cares what those long-necked _sha'buir _think about anything?" The captain winced at something and Weave moved to give him another dose of painkillers, but his brother shook his head. "Don't waste any more on me, son. You should go help the others." He gave a wide grin at Weave's consternation. "We have souls you know," he said suddenly. "Whether or not they care to acknowledge it."

Weave shook his head. "With all due respect, that can't be proven, sir."

"I don't have to prove what I know," was his brother's reply. "Especially when I meet a brother like you, Weave, I know I'm right. We're men. We have souls. We're not worth nothing." He sighed and his eyes closed. The readout on his screen wailed once before it silenced and Weave leaned forward to feel for his brother's pulse.

Nothing.

The 'pad clattered to the cold floor as Weave stood, his hands numb and hanging at his sides. He had seen death a thousand times over, but something about the reality of it resonated within him this time. It was a while before he found that he was able to move on, to stand at the next beside and begin the process again: checking the pulse, feeling the temperature, searching for a visible wound.

_We have souls._

_We are not worth nothing. _

Weave would have liked to have proof, but he had none for a long, long time.


	3. Crest

**Crest**

"_Now there's never gonna be an intermission,_

_But there'll always be a closing night."_

Everyone told Crest that he talked too much.

Unless he happened to be annoyed he was inclined to agree with them, though he rarely allowed himself _that_ luxury. It wasn't his business if others wanted to act like idiots; Crest had long ago learned that he operated at peak efficiency as long as he kept the negative thoughts in check. Not that he didn't have them – everyone did – but they never helped, never served any purpose besides weighing him down, so he failed to see the point in getting angry.

It was not an easy lesson.

Crest didn't really remember his first battle all that much; mostly it was a blur of blaster-fire, his own burning muscles, shouts and screams in his ears, and a whole lot of dirt. In any case, he supposed it wasn't more notable than any of the countless other battles happening at the same time. The second one was much the same, except there was less dirt.

The third battle that he took part in...well, _that _was the interesting one.

Initially it was the decided lack of chaos that stuck out in his mind. Himself and two other clones – Stark and Rush – were tasked with the delicate mission of sneaking behind enemy lines, placing the detonators and then beating a hasty retreat, a task that he found to be rather nerve-wracking. While up until now Crest's experience in battle had been frenetic and wild, this time was completely different. Steady hands were not his strong suit, though on a mission like this they were essential.

It was supposed to be done quickly.

In and out.

_Simple, really. _

"How's it coming?" He and Stark were covering their Sergeant, Rush, as the elder clone was focused on setting up the charges at the critically weak points in the Separatist structure. Stark was impatient.

The incongruously named Rush ignored him as he unspooled a length of det tape from his kit and placed it along the edges of the door where they'd paused. His movements were controlled and careful; Crest noticed how he didn't waste any time, how every motion was designed for maximum efficiency. Catching the newbie's glance, Rush nodded to the slender line of tape. "That's how it's done, shiny," he said, rising to his feet. "Can't be too precise when dealing with explosives."

"No, but you _can _get blown to tiny pieces if you take forever," Stark replied, lifting his Deece and looking through the scope behind them. "Aren't you done yet?"

"That's aren't you done yet, _Sarge,_" Rush said. "And yes. I am. Thank you for phrasing your question in that very respectful manner." Crest heard the Sergeant's sigh through the comm before he indicated that they should move on to the next point. The trio continued in this fashion for perhaps another half hour before they reached the second-to-last spot. As Rush knelt to set the charge he paused and looked at Crest. "Want to give it a try?"

Stark made a sound of irritation. "Seriously? You're gonna give this job to the shiny?"

"Ignore him," Rush replied, handing Crest the device. "Makes life easier."

Grinning behind his helmet, Crest took the charge and began to place it, ensuring that it was even and properly aligned, as he'd seen the Sergeant do. But either this charge was stubborn or his hands were shaking, because it refused to go down evenly and he found himself having to pull it up and replace it a few times. "Sorry, sir," he murmured as he lifted it for the third time.

Rush was kneeling beside him, though his attention was on the landscape at their backs. "Take your time, Crest," he said. "You've got all the time in the world."

"No, he doesn't," Stark replied, pointing. "I've got some SBDs approaching at one o'clock!"

Crest felt his hands starting to shake worse and he nearly dropped the charge – which would have been very bad at this point – but then he felt Rush's hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry about it, kid," he said, his voice calm. "We've got your back. Stark," he added, turning away from Crest. "Get a few EMPs ready...we need a distraction while Crest finishes the job."

"We're out of them, sir," Stark's voice was tinted with fear. "Used the last of them on the way out here, remember?"

Rush stood and raised his Deece. "Well then," he said. "We'll just have to find another way to keep the tinnies occupied, won't we?" He glanced back at Crest, who was still attempting to set the charge. "You gonna be okay for a few minutes?"

"I've almost got it..." His hands were shaking so hard he thought it was a miracle that he hadn't set the damn thing off already. "Just another second..."

"Shiny's gonna blow us all up before the clankers do," Stark muttered. They could hear the super battle droids' approach now, the ominous sound that gave the droid army their nickname growing louder with each moment. "I swear, newbie, if you screw this up-"

The Sergeant's voice was conversational as he replied. "Hey, Stark?"

"Sarge?"

"Less talk, more blasting. In case you forgot, we're at war." With that, Rush turned and leaped away from their position, firing on the droids as they came into view. Stark spared Crest one last look before he followed, though thankfully he said nothing.

It was difficult to focus with the sounds of his brothers fighting in his ears, but by some miracle Crest was able to finally set the charge. "Got it," he said with a sigh of relief. "You guys want some help?"

There was only the sound of blaster fire and heavy breathing for several moments before Rush replied. "Nope. You have the last charge...I need you to go ahead and set it up, Crest old boy. We've got you covered." In the background, Stark shouted obscenities as he fired on the clankers.

Crest felt a stab of apprehension slice through his gut, but he nodded. "Aye, Sarge." He stood up from his crouch and hurried to the final point; as he knelt beside the durasteel frame, his hands started shaking again and he was certain that he was going to blow himself up right along with the section of wall. As it was he dropped the charge twice before he even got out enough tape to place it. Behind him, Crest could hear his brothers fighting still and part of him wanted to just forget the stupid charge and go help them.

As if sensing his hesitation, Rush's voice sounded in his ear. "Hey Crest, how's it going?" The Sergeant's voice was punctuated by a grunt as he fired on another droid.

"Er, not bad..." Crest replied, reaching for the charge and brushing the dirt off.

"You doing okay over there?"

Crest swallowed and began to place the device, ensuring that it was aligned. _Damn! _He cursed to himself as it fell to the ground again.

But Rush's voice was calm, almost pleasant. "Don't worry about it, _vod,_" he said. "We're good here...just having a philosophical discussion with the tinnies..." He paused and Crest heard his breathing grow labored before he spoke again. "Seems that they're confused between the difference between metal and 'mettle.'" He chuckled to himself. "Get it?"

Despite himself, Crest laughed. "Good one, Sarge." He took a deep breath and set the charge; it held. _Now just have to calibrate it._

Stark's voice sounded then. "I swear, you and your jokes...they'll be the death of us all."

"Not the best thing to say on the battlefield, Starkie," Rush replied. "Morale and all that."

Crest held his breath as he entered the code that would synchronize the device with the others and the detonator that Rush held. _Come on..._Despite the temperature-controlled settings of his armor, he felt sweat bead at his forehead as he concentrated.

It was then that he heard Rush give a shout of pain; Crest whirled around, lifting his blaster and rising to join his brothers, the device forgotten. "I'm good," he heard the Sergeant say after a moment. "Just make sure you get the job done. I've got a bet going with these clankers...they don't think we can do it."

"Sarge..."

"You've got this, Crest," Rush replied, though it was as though his teeth were gritting. The sergeant gave a hiss of pain when he spoke next. "Come on, now. Don't prove Stark right...his head's big enough as it is."

"I resent that." Stark sounded nervous, though he was still alive at least.

"Glad to hear it."

Grinning to himself, Crest took another breath and finished calibrating the charge. The moment he was done he stood up and lifted his weapon. "Got it," he shouted. "I'm on my way." Silence. Then he heard the sound of approaching droids and felt fear clutch at his gut. "Sarge? Stark?"

"I'm here," Stark replied. "Come on, let's go. This place isn't gonna be around much longer." His brother's form appeared at his side and they began to sprint.

"Where's...?"

Stark huffed as they ran, but made no reply. When they were clear, he called the others who'd remained behind. "The Sarge is down...requesting remote detonation." A brother answered in the affirmative and in the next moment Crest and Stark were thrown to the ground as an explosion shuddered through the air behind them. Through the comlink he could hear cheers and whoops of victory as the Seppie base went up in smoke and flame.

But he found it hard to cheer at that moment until he looked up to see Stark holding out his hand to help him get to his feet. "Good job, Crest," he said. "Come on...let's rejoin the others."

Crest nodded, though he couldn't find his voice for a few minutes. When he did, he looked back at the wreckage of their mission and smiled to himself. _Thanks, Sarge._

It was a lesson he never forgot.


	4. Milo

_A/N: The Battle of Teyr is featured in the graphic novel _The Defense of Kamino,_ which I used to own but have sadly misplaced. I've tried to get the facts of the incident as correct as I could, but I realize that there will be errors...or, as I like to call them, "examples of creative license."_

* * *

><p><strong>Milo<strong>

"_That is when you see the sign,_

_Luminous and high._

_Tomorrow's not what it used to be;_

_We were born to die."_

In his short life, Milo had been truly certain of few things: though he had spent his entire life wearing it, his plastoid armor was incredibly uncomfortable to sit down in; no matter how hard he tried to pretend otherwise, ration cubes were never going to taste like actual food; and there was nothing created by Kaminoan or Human that would take the sharp smell of tibanna gas out of his nostrils.

On Teyr, he learned something new: that he really _hated _spider-droids.

From their position at one end of the narrow canyon, he and his brothers watched as the massive clankers lumbered towards them, round bodies supported by slender, almost fragile looking legs that bit into the hard-packed dirt of the canyon floor. Beside him, he heard one of them – another "shiny" like himself – give a soft whistle of astonishment at the sight.

"Whoa...those things look pretty serious." Spades glanced at Milo; his expression was hidden by the T-shaped visor, but Milo thought that his brother's eyes were most likely wide with shock. He knew his own were.

At his other side, Grant's head shook. "Just like the training sims. Nothing we can't handle." His tone was light, though it was edged with apprehension.

Spades inhaled. "This is a bit different than those sims, Grant." Beneath their feet the ground was trembling.

"Right...we have a Jedi Master with us." Milo nodded to the front line of the troops, to General K'Kruhk, who was also watching the approaching droids. The Whiphid's pale hair floated around his long, furred face as a gust of wind tore through the canyon, though he remained motionless, lightsaber ignited like a beacon. "Jedi can handle anything."

"What's all the chatter about over here?" The three younger clones turned to see Lieutenant Stonewall standing behind them, blaster raised. Before any of them could reply he shook his head. "Conversation to a minimum and keep your minds on the task at hand."

"Sir, yes sir!" The reply was in unison, three identical voices echoing one another.

The Lieutenant gave a quiet sigh and moved on towards the next group of soldiers. The company had spread out in patches of three or four troops, taking what cover they could behind bits of boulder and rock that were scattered throughout the canyon; the General had ordered the more inexperienced clones to remain in the rear and provide support. Ahead of them, Milo could see that the spider droids were starting to pick up their pace and he could hear the keening whine of the blaster cannons as they charged up.

His grip on his Deece tightened and he tried to remember the specs for the droid that he'd learned prior to this battle, but all of the information had apparently flown right out of his head. He swallowed thickly. Beside him, Spades' breathing had picked up and he was shifting in his crouch while on Milo's other side, Grant held almost unnaturally still. No one spoke.

Someone shouted into their comm an instant before bright red blaster-fire skittered from the droids and made its way towards the clone battalion, sending up sprays of dirt and rock where it landed. The General shouted words that Milo figured were supposed to be an encouragement of some kind, though the brilliant arc of his saber proved the be a more heartening image. _We have a Jedi. _Milo aimed for the closest droid and began returning fire along with the others. _We'll be fine. _

* * *

><p>It was chaos.<p>

Milo had never seen anything quite like it in his life, though he figured it was probably similar to most other battles that he would get to experience. _Provided I'm around that long. _Himself, Grant and Spades had managed to stick together, though they'd been cut off from the rest of the group by a fallen spider-droid that was sending trails of smoke into the air.

"At least the damn things make good cover," Grant muttered as he crouched behind the rotund body of the droid and fired at the oncoming clankers.

Spades was on the other side of the thing, lifting one of his grenades. "Don't lose your focus, Grant," he shouted. "I don't want to end up in pieces on the ground." He glanced behind him at Milo, who was firing as well. "You okay back there?"

For several moments, Milo didn't reply. He had been watching the older clones and the Jedi, and had made a very interesting observation. "The legs," he said to the others. "If you take the legs out first, they collapse...and make a nice explosion." To demonstrate, he lifted his Deece and aimed for the nearest droid; three shots to one of the legs in quick succession sent the thing tumbling to the ground where it blossomed into orange flames.

Grant chuckled. "That _is_ pretty. Good job, shiny."

"Takes one to know one," Milo replied, though his eyes fell on a white-clad figure on the ground not far from his own position, clutching at his side even as he struggled to his feet. "It's the Lieutenant," he said, pointing. "He's down."

"What do you want me to do about it?" Spades yelled as he fired on another spider droid. It was clear he was attempting to recreate Milo's demonstration, though his aim wasn't as true. "We're a bit busy, Milo."

Grant's breathing was heavy as he continued firing. "He's an officer. He's capable."

But Milo shook his head as he watched Stonewall's halted movements. Blood was beginning to seep out of his armor, staining the white plating with ugly crimson. "He's injured."

The young clone's deece suddenly felt very heavy in his hands. "Cover me, guys."

"Milo-"

"Spades, just cover me," Milo shouted as he began to run towards the Lieutenant. "He needs help." Though Stonewall wasn't terribly far away, it took Milo longer than it should have to reach the officer as he had to duck and roll several times to avoid the blaster fire that peppered the ground at his feet. Finally he reached his destination. "Lieutenant," he said, his voice breathless. "Can you walk?"

Stonewall looked up at him. "Milo? What are you..."

"Come on," Milo replied, holding out his hand. "We've got cover nearby. Grant and Spades are watching our backs." He took the other clone's arm and helped support his weight as Stonewall limped next to him; they began to make their way back. However, before they could reach the others, Milo heard a yelp of pain in his comm. "Spades?"

Grant's voice sounded next. _"Kriff! I_ think they're-" His voice was cut off in the next moment and Milo felt dread clutch at his stomach.

"Grant?"

Silence.

He looked at the Lieutenant, who suddenly seemed very substantial even as he leaned against Milo's shoulder. "We need to find shelter," Stonewall said, his voice calm. "Over there...that boulder." He indicated a large piece of rock to their right. The ground was shaking with the steps of oncoming droids; the air was bright with darting blue and red blaster-fire.

"But sir, there's no one covering us..."

He was startled to hear the Lieutenant chuckle. "Then we should probably hurry."

It was a limping and awkward gait, but they managed to run.

When they reached the shelter of rock, Stonewall gave a hiss of pain as he slid off of Milo's shoulder, though he did not fall. Rather, he slid into a careful kneel and moved his body into an attack position.

"Lieutenant?"

"I'm fine," the older clone replied, lifting his blaster. "Well enough to shoot, anyway." He nodded to the spider droids that were still incoming. There were many less white-armored figures facing them then there had been before. "Let's give these tinnies something to worry about."

Nodding, Milo began firing beside the Lieutenant, again aiming for the nearest droid's legs. As he watched it fall, he noticed that Stonewall was looking at him. "Sir?"

Stonewall didn't reply, as there was another droid approaching; in fact, neither one spoke until the battle was over and those who remained were beginning to collect themselves and prepare for leaving. _We're alive. __Does that mean we won? _Milo glanced at his brother and vocalized the question as he bent to help the Lieutenant get to his feet.

"Works for me," Stonewall replied. They began to make their way towards the others and Milo reckoned that only about eight percent of his brothers had survived the battle. General K'Kruhk watched their approach, though his face turned away after a moment as he rested his eyes on the fallen clones; the air around him was weighted and heavy as though gravity had a stronger pull on the Jedi.

While they waited for the transport, the Lieutenant glanced over at Milo. "Nice shooting, by the way. You were trained as a sniper?"

Beneath his bucket, Milo frowned. "No, sir."

The older clone nodded. "You might want to consider putting in a request," he said. "That was impressive."

"I'll do that, sir," Milo replied with a crisp salute.

They sat in silence for another few moments before Milo felt the Lieutenant's hand on his shoulder. "You did them proud, kid."

Milo nodded but said nothing, his eyes on the hard-packed dirt.

"And thank you," the older clone added, his voice quiet. "For saving me, I mean." He removed his helmet and looked at Milo, who took off his own as well after a moment.

"Just doing my job," Milo replied. "Sir."

Stonewall shook his head. "Not sir," he said. "Brother." He smiled.

"Brother," Milo repeated, smiling as well. "You're welcome."


	5. Bright

**Bright**

The fire cast a wide swathe of light across the Rhen Var tundra and Traxis was thankful for the climate control of his armor, without which he was sure he'd be rather chilled. A visual scan across the area confirmed that all was quiet; there had been no sign of the Separatist, Doctor Nes Raphan, that his newly-formed squad had been pursuing for the past week or so.

Traxis liked fire; besides the fact that it was practical, providing light and warmth, he liked to watch it in all of its forms: flickering, lambent embers; crackling tongues of flame that licked up the stacked logs; tiny flecks of ash and smolder that were thrust upward, pushed by heated air.

He lifted his head to survey the area again, satisfied when his HUD revealed that there was no threat at the present time. Truth be told, it was getting a little boring. _I guess boring is good, sometimes. Better than being shot at, anyway._

The others were sleeping, save his partner on the watch who was seated across from him: the Jedi Knight Kalinda Halcyon, with whom he's only spoken to a handful of times. Traxis had not dealt with many Jedi before and he'd certainly never been this close to one, so he was a little unsure of what – if anything – he was supposed to say. _How do you make small talk with a Jedi? Do they even care about anything that clones do? _He glanced at her again, taking in the thin robe that she had draped across her shoulders; he figured that she must be cold, but she was still as she watched the fire with an intensity that made him wonder if she was really "all there."

After a few moments he realized that he'd been staring, so he dropped his gaze and reached for the poker that he'd made to shift the logs. It had been a chore to find enough fuel but he had been determined.

"Thanks for the fire," she said, the sudden words nearly causing him to drop the poker in surprise.

"You're welcome, General Halcyon." He glanced up. The sky above them was immense and filled with stars; an endless void, a huge chasm that made him feel rather small and insignificant all of a sudden. _I __suppose it's a pretty sight, but it kind of bothers me. _He looked back at the fire. After a moment he unsealed his helmet and set it beside him, allowing the heat to touch his face. It was real, it was warm, and he felt heartened by the sensation.

He didn't realize that the Jedi was looking at him until she spoke again. "How did you get your scar?"

For a moment Traxis held perfectly still while he considered her words; he did not want to talk about that particular incident, but he was unsure how – if indeed it was allowed – to refuse to answer a direct question from a Jedi. However, she seemed to sense his internal debate, for she shook her head. "Never mind. It's none of my business. I was just curious." She gave him a smile that was meant, he supposed, to be reassuring but he only felt more awkward by the kindness in her expression.

But he was also relieved, as it meant that he didn't have to answer, so he nodded. "It's fine, General. Thank you." Why he tacked that on, he couldn't have said.

Another few minutes passed and he realized that she was rubbing her left knee in small, circular motions, the movement almost absent, borne of long-ingrained habit rather than conscious thought. Catching his eye, she paused and began to tug off her boot. Moments later she rolled up the left legging to reveal a knotted, shiny pink scar that rested at her knee-joint. Despite himself, Traxis leaned forward. "Looks like it hurt, General."

She nodded, smoothing her fingertips over the broken patch of skin. "I got this when I was sixteen, when my Master was killed." The words rested in the air and he thought that he could see the sorrow on her face as her memory cast back to that day, though her voice had been carefully neutral.

"Bacta didn't do anything for it?" He couldn't help but ask, as it hadn't for his own scar. There were some wounds that the cooling touch of bacta could not heal.

"Nothing worked for a long time...even now it occasionally bothers me." She gave him a knowing look. "You may have noticed that I limp a little sometimes."

He had, of course. They all had, but no one said anything. It was why, he supposed, she was running around the galaxy with them rather than staying on the front lines of battle with the other Jedi. _Strange to hear her talk about it so...casually._ He nodded. "I did notice, General." He met her eyes; she was looking at him, not his scar, not his armor, but _him_. It was disconcerting and he looked back at the fire.

A moment later she slid down the fabric of her leggings to cover her knee once more; bending down to replace her boot. When she finished, she rubbed her hands together and held her palms over the fire to warm them as she studied at the flat tundra around the camp, possibly using her Jedi-senses to determine if things were still safe. Some of his brothers – present company included – took comfort in a Jedi's preternatural awareness, but Traxis found the entire thing a little hard to understand. _I'd rather have my HUD and a pair of blasters at my sides than a vague 'feeling' that something's wrong._

When she looked back at him, he could see the firelight reflected in her dark eyes. "It was horrible," she said. "No...more than that. It was the worst thing that's ever happened to me, but in the end..." There was a pause and he got the sense that she was collecting her thoughts. "In the end it made me who I am, in part. It made me _better,_ I think, as terrible an ordeal as it was, and I'm fairly happy with the person that I turned out to be."

Traxis took in her words and frowned. He noted how she didn't say 'the Jedi that I turned out to be.' Finally he looked at her. "It was my first battle. Teth. I probably should have died. Sir." He winced internally at the casual nature of his tone, but she didn't seem to mind; instead she nodded once.

"Teth. I remember hearing about that one."

"They told me that I was lucky to have escaped with my life," he added.

She did not ask him to clarify as she met his eyes. "You didn't believe them, did you?"

"I wanted to."

There was silence for a few minutes before she spoke. "Some say that we make our own luck, Traxis. I think that's true. Destiny is a nice concept, but I believe that we have the power to chose our own fates. I think that our lives are only ever what we make of them."

_What will I make of mine? What could I possibly make of mine? _He had no response, but she seemed to understand anyway, as she rubbed at her arms and glanced around the surrounding, flat tundra. He noticed that she was visibly trembling now, though she kept her place on the watch.

"I forgot how much I hate the cold."

This made him look up. "Jedi aren't supposed to hate, are they, General?"

She laughed, a bright sound even laid against the crackling fire. "You're right. I meant to say that I utterly despise the cold. Is that better?" There was nothing but merriment in her voice,despite the bitter wind that darted through the camp.

Trax deliberated for a second before he stood up, moving to his and Crest's tent; after shoving his snoring brother to the side, he reached for his survival blanket, returning to her a moment later to present her with the thermal, reflective material. "You look cold, sir."

Even as she took it from him, he realized that she very likely had her own blanket as well as her own reasons for not using it, and that he was only making himself look like a _di'kut_; but she smiled and wrapped the cloth around her shoulders. "Thank you, Traxis."

He nodded and took his seat. The flames had died a little so he prodded the logs until they were high and snapping once more; he gave a quiet sigh as they continued their dance. The Jedi sat across from him and for the rest of the night they watched the fire in an easier silence.

* * *

><p><em>AN: I didn't write this for Memorial Day, but thought it might be a little bit fitting. Also, this quite kind of jumped out at me, so I wanted to share:_

_A hero is someone who has given his or her life to something bigger than oneself. _

_~Joseph Campbell_


	6. Laughter

**Laughter**

His back was starting to hurt from sitting upright in the weathered seat of the small Republic shuttle, but Crest was not about to relax his posture in front of his new CO, the Jedi Knight Kalinda Halcyon. "Entering the coordinates for Japarran, General Halcyon," he said in most formal tone. "We should arrive there within-" He paused to double-check the time. "Six point five hours."

"Are you sure?"

The question caught him off guard and he ran the calculations over in his mind again and again before glancing at the dark-haired Jedi seated at the helm. "Sir?" Something in her tone suggested that the question was a joke, but he found that he was unwilling to risk a witty retort.

She glanced at him; from the light of the console he could make out that one of her brows was lifted though her expression was unreadable. "Nothing, Crest. Thank you." The chair creaked as she leaned back, her eyes on the stars as they receded past the viewport. Crest's back still ached, but he held his position.

_Captain Stonewall was very...adamant that we all make a good impression on her. And something tells me he's not the guy to get on the bad side of. _Still, he wondered if she would really care if he reclined a little. The plastoid armor was uncomfortable enough standing; while seated it left a lot to be desired. He gave a quiet sigh and decided to ignore his own discomfort like a good soldier.

"It's strange to have a moment of peace after so much running around, isn't it?" Her voice was soft, but it carried enough. "I thought we'd never leave Rhen Var...then we get sent out here." She inhaled deeply, though if it was out of frustration or something else he could not tell.

So Crest nodded. "Yes, sir."

He thought he saw her flinch but he couldn't be sure. They sat in silence for about fifteen more minutes before she lifted her head and glanced at the console. The next moment, he heard the tell-tale sound of an alarm dinging, and he immediately began scanning the contols, trying to assess what was wrong. _Crinking rust bucket...all the fancy starships in the GAR and they send us off with this thing...may as well be held together with tape. _

"Can you see the problem?"

"I think so, General Halcyon, sir." After a glance at the indicator icon on the screen before him, Crest slid out of the seat and bent his knees to peer under the console; a few moments later he let out a noise of satisfaction as he found the culprit: a pair of loose wires that had disconnected from the sensor array. He communicated the problem to her, watching as she nodded.

"Great. You can fix it?" She had slid beside him after setting the ship on autopilot and he was suddenly acutely aware of her presence, still strange and almost alien.

_Don't screw this up in front of the new boss. _Crest swallowed and nodded. "Yes, sir. Just need a second..." He maneuvered the wires together, pulling a spare connector-port from his belt to attach them.

Suddenly, his entire hand was stinging as a slice of electricity arced from the wires to his fingertips – it kriffing _hurt, _even through his glove – and he let out an involuntary string of the worse swears he'd had the opportunity to collect in the dark recesses of his brain. The words began as a hiss but rose to a yelp as another dash of electricity surged, causing him to jolt backwards, knock into the chair and fall on his back in a manner most unbecoming to a proper clone trooper.

Mortified, he lifted his eyes to see the Jedi standing over him, her hand outstretched and her face expressionless. He winced internally but reached up and allowed himself to be helped to his feet; her grip was stronger than it looked and he was reminded again – as if he needed reminding, really – that she _was_ a Jedi. Once he was upright he opened his mouth to apologize, though he figured that his chances at making a good impression were shot to hell. _Sorry, Captain._

However, she raised her brow at him. "Crest?"

_Kriffing. Hell_. Anticipating a thorough chewing-out for his lapse, he swallowed and tried not to grimace. "General?"

"I didn't hear a 'sir' in any of that." She took her seat again, leaning back in the chair and giving him a knowing smile.

It was easier than he'd anticipated to return the look. "Apologies, General. Next time, I'll toss that one in the mix." Their shared laughter was easy against the relative darkness of the cabin and after a moment he sank into his chair with a sigh.


	7. Remembrance

_If you're familiar with my fics, this takes place just after _Warriors Of Shadow_.  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>Remembrance<strong>

"_Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum."_

As he did every night, the clone trooper known as Milo whispered the Mando'a phrase to himself, followed by the names of his fallen brothers. Eyes closed, he swayed a little in the breeze that carried the scent of distant snow. Though he was not looking, he knew that the stars above his head were bright, pinpricks of light amid the gaping maw of atmosphere, and that stretched before him, the Alderaanian plain was laid bare before the jagged backdrop of mountains, standing sentinel beneath the shelter of sky.

While his Jedi general, Kalinda Halcyon, had been sent to the planet to conduct Republic business with Senator Organa, Milo and the rest of his squad were given the run of the guest quarters of the senator's estate. It was strange to be in an actual building for once – and a nice one at that – rather than crawling about the jungle or desert as he'd gotten used to in the past six months, but Milo knew that he would go wherever his general asked him; the realization occurred to him that she had a tendency to ask rather than order. Despite its strangeness, the idea made him smile.

"Couldn't sleep?" The sound of the Jedi's voice roused him from his thoughts, and Milo glanced in the direction of the balcony's entrance, where the dark-haired woman was emerging from the brick building. At first he felt a flash of something he categorized as embarrassment, as his initial thought was of her intimate relationship with Captain Stonewall, but he let the feeling go as quickly as it had come. Kalinda Halcyon came to stand beside him, placing her hands on the smooth stone of the railing.

Milo saluted her once, noting with confusion that she sighed and cast her eyes upward. "No, General," he replied. "I was performing remembrance."

Her head tilted as she regarded him. "Remembrance?" A moment later something changed in her expression and she nodded. "Of fallen brothers?"

"Yes, sir." He looked at the stars. "It's a Mando thing."

"I've heard Stonewall mention it," she said, tracing invisible patterns on the railing with the nail of her index finger. "But I didn't realize it was Mandalorian."

The wind sharpened and Milo considered putting on his bucket, as it would keep out the chill, but decided against it. "Not every clone cares to learn about Mando traditions," he explained, leaning forward on the balcony's ledge with an ease he didn't quite feel. "We're all taught some basic phrases and songs – useful for highly stressful combat situations, and to foster a sense of brotherhood – but some of us..." He paused, unsure how to phrase the thought. "It sticks with some of us more than others."

"It's your heritage," she replied. "Jango Fett was a Mandalorian, right?" The edges of her dark hair were lifted by the wind, almost reaching above her head to the sky.

Milo nodded. "But that's not all of it...Jango trained the ARCs, and hired Mandos to train the commandos. The rest of us picked up on the culture if we wanted. My squad-mates..." His voice trailed off and his gaze fell to the ledge beneath his elbows. The light from within the room behind him provided just enough illumination to reflect off of the minuscule flecks of mica, glinting as if made of starlight. "My squad-mates liked Mando'a, so we all learned as much as we could."

The Jedi was silent for a moment; he wondered if she was absorbing his words or if her mind had wandered afield of his mundane attempt at conversation. When she spoke, it caught him off-guard. "How does it go, again?"

He'd said the words every single night since Teyr, since well before he'd been recruited for her squad, so they slipped out of his mouth with what he supposed might be considered eloquence, though Mando'a often seemed bulky and gruff on his tongue. The phrase was followed with the names of his brothers who'd fallen in combat, those men who'd been lost within a dirt-red canyons of Teyr. When he finished, her eyes were wide and – he thought – odd and glinting, but he was still learning how to read the dark-haired woman's expressions.

"What does it mean?" Her voice was soft against his ears and not at all like the guttural thrust of Mando'a, or the whingeing of the Alderaanian wind.

Milo inhaled; he could taste snow and mountains, perhaps even stars. "'I'm still alive, but you are dead. I remember you, so you are eternal.'" Heat crept to his ears and he gave her what he hoped was a nonchalant shrug. "I know it's a bit simple, General, but I always thought it sounded nice." A memory returned to him and he chuckled despite himself.

The Jedi gave him a faint smile. "What is it?"

"My brother – one of my brothers – was something of an expert on Mando'a curses," he said after a pause. "Grant made it his life's work to learn every single swear-word he could..." He trailed off with a frown. _Probably not the most appropriate topic of conversation with a Jedi Knight. Or a female. _"Er...not that I would ever repeat them, General." He considered saluting again, but thought back to her sigh and decided against it.

The Jedi laughed, leaning back and tugging on the railing as she turned her face up to the sky. "It's okay, Mi. I won't say anything if you won't." She glanced at him, brow lifted. "I've been known to swear upon occasion, myself."

For several minutes they stood beside one another at the balcony's edge; Milo noticed that a spread of wispy clouds were starting to move across the sky, urged along by high-altitude winds. The temperature was dropping but he was only cold on his face. A surreptitious glance at the Jedi showed him that her skin was pricking, but she made no move to go inside. Idly, he wondered what she saw in Stonewall, what it was about the officer that differentiated him among the thousands of his brothers. Milo wondered if he'd ever meet someone who would look at him the way he'd seen her looking at the captain.

"Do you mind telling me their names, Milo?" Her voice shook the thoughts away and he felt a flash of concern that she'd read his mind, but her eyes on him revealed nothing but curiosity and – he realized – sorrow.

"Grant was a spitfire," he said after a pause. "Nothing scared him – ever. Well, missing a meal, but that's not too unusual among clones, I guess." She chuckled at this and he felt a flash of satisfaction. _Grant would like to know he made a Jedi laugh. _"He liked to tease everyone, but he could take it just as well as he could dish it out, so no one really minded."

"He was the fan of Mando'a curses?"

Milo grinned. "Yeah. Good old Grant and his swearing. He got better about it once we entered real combat. The COs didn't care so much for it, you see. But in the mess or in the barracks..." The words trailed off, but he could see that she understood.

After another pause he folded his hands and stretched his torso over the railing, tilting his head to watch the cirrus clouds that were filling the sky. "Spades was just the opposite. But he wasn't quiet...he was..." There was a pause while Milo frowned in thought. "He was careful. He didn't like to take unnecessary risks. Not that he was a coward," he added, sitting upright. "Spades wanted to make sure that we always came back from each mission alive and whole. He always put his brothers' safety first."Something caught in his throat and he tried to swallow it down.

"I wish I had known them," she replied in her soft voice. "They sound like good men." Blinking, Milo looked at the Jedi, realizing that he'd almost forgotten that she was there. As much as he wanted to say something in reply, he only nodded and turned his face back to the sky. After a few more minutes she glanced at him again. "Would you mind teaching me that phrase? Is it...okay if I use it?"

It was not the last thing he'd expected to hear from the Jedi, but it had certainly not occurred to him that she would ask. "Of course," he replied, straightening. "Mandalorians aren't picky about who uses their language, so long as your intentions are good." It took a few repetitions of the words, but eventually she was able to recite them back to him with accuracy. The last time she did so, she said a name, very softly, that he almost didn't catch.

As if sensing his question, she gave him a sad smile. "My first master, Jonas Ki. He was killed when I was just a girl." There was something in her tone that told him there was more to the story, but it wasn't his nature to pry. Her hand crept to the lightsaber at her hip. "This was his. I've never been able to use my old one since he died."

Milo smiled, only because the concept was so familiar. "That's very Mando of you, General." At her perplexed look he explained. "It's common to take an item from one who has fallen, a weapon or a piece of armor. Like the recitation of their name...it keeps their memory alive in your heart."

She looked down at the saber hilt but made no reply, and he wondered if he'd said something stupid. However, after another minute she met his eyes. "That's a lovely sentiment, Milo. Thank you for teaching me the remembrance." The clouds were thicker over the stars and it was darker all around them, save for the small bit of light emanating from the room behind.

"You're welcome, General Halcyon." She sighed again and he felt a flash of apprehension. "General? Is everything okay?"

The dark-haired woman shook her head, a half-smile on her face as she reached forward to put her hand on his forearm. "No, Mi. Everything's fine." The wind picked up and he realized that his cheeks were going numb; she gave him a knowing look. "You should get inside before you freeze."

It didn't sound like an order but he decided not to risk it. "Good night, General." He turned to head inside.

Her head inclined as she watched him go. "'Night, Milo. Sleep well."


End file.
